


hope that you don't suffer.

by LovelyVerisimilitude



Series: character studies. [2]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Pre-The Titan's Curse (Percy Jackson), Swearing, Thalia Grace Has Abandonment Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26239171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyVerisimilitude/pseuds/LovelyVerisimilitude
Summary: “You don’t have to go through this alone,” Percy says unfalteringly. “We’re all...we’re here for you. If you, y’know, if you ever need it.”Thalia merely observes him with blank eyes. Blinks. Turns around again. It’s consoling, the way he said it, but it’s not enough.He’ll leave her soon. They all leave eventually.She’s used to it.(CAMP HALF-BLOOD— Thalia's not alive as everyone thinks.)
Relationships: Annabeth Chase & Thalia Grace, Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson (hinted), Luke Castellan & Thalia Grace, Thalia Grace & Grover Underwood, Thalia Grace & Percy Jackson
Series: character studies. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877086
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	1. with every broken bone,

**Author's Note:**

> i. this is mostly canon compliant, but not really when it comes to camp rules. i forgot most of them to be honest.
> 
> ii. thalia grace stans, this is for _you._
> 
> iii. beta read by [Floretfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floretfall/pseuds/Floretfall).

Thalia is—Thalia is—she is—she’s—

Thalia is _dying._

The world is spinning and there’s so much pain, hot and cold and brutal _pain,_ and she—and she—

As she slumps down, clutching the bloody wound around her abdomen, she releases one final breath.

It’s a little bit like relief.

# 

* * *

She opens her eyes again.

And she—and it’s—it’s—

It’s _impossible._

She was dead.

She was lifeless.

And Thalia thought—she thought—

“You’re okay,” the boy next to her utters. _You're alive._ For one startling second, she mistakes him for Luke, but he’s not. Around the same age, maybe, but this is _definitely_ not Luke. “What’s your name?”

She can’t seem to voice the words. Her heart is hammering against her rib cage, skin drenched in slick sweat, her hands clammy. She’s unbelievably bone-tired and fatigued and she doesn’t know _why_ she’s here or _how_ she’s here, she just―just―

“My name is Thalia,” she responds after a while. “Daughter of Zeus.”

# 

* * *

It’s frightening.

There isn’t even anything _specifically_ frightening, but Thalia knows she should be scared.

She’s on a worn leather couch, her body lying across the length of it, hands folded on her stomach. Like a dead corpse in a coffin. The doors and windows are secured firmly, but she can still hear footsteps pacing against the floor of the porch, voices talking frantically. They’re arguing, discussing, distressing over _her,_ and then―and then―then―

Then there’s a sob.

A guttural cry.

She doesn’t know where it came from.

# 

* * *

Thalia clutches her abdomen.

The voices cease as she lets herself submerge into sleep.

She recalls the bewilderment of arriving here, how somebody―she doesn’t know who―hauled her limp, lethargic body through a field of grass. Lights flicker on, her breathing erratic, her mind races, her skin’s ice cold. Fatally cold. Thalia remembers shouts and yells and orders and the eyes of beasts and the world is still _fucking spinning_ and it reminds her―

She gasps, launching her back off the couch.

Squeezes her stomach.

Lets out a choked breath.

_I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I’m alive, I’m alive, I'm alive―_

She lies down again.

Thalia closes her eyes, but she doesn’t sleep.

# 

* * *

Her eyes study the shadows of trees warp and take shape as morning dawns over the room.

She’s sitting up now, the events of the past night reverberating in her mind as she attempts to recollect what had happened after she woke up in the woods. Her fingers trace over her empty wrist, touching her unmarred skin, where there should’ve been an abrasion or blood or scar tissue.

Thalia seems to be in a living room of some sort. It’s an ample space, undecorated, plain, _boring_ with a cobblestone fireplace chiseled into the side. If the choice was up to her, she wouldn’t have picked an ugly fucking dirt brown color to paint the walls. It isn’t even an appealing shade of bronze or dark wood. It’s muddy. It has a green undertone. It reminds her of vomit.

Her mind competes with the clock on the wall, thinking a million questions as each second goes by.

_What happened? Where’s Annabeth? Where’s Luke?_

_Are they safe? Are they alive? Are they dead?_

_Why did―when is―who―how is she still―_

And then Thalia hears it.

She hears the floorboards groan.

Her first instinct is to whip out her weapons, but when she goes to reveal them, she remembers that somebody had apprehended them. She isn’t mind-blown to know that these people, whoever they were, had wanted her unarmed, had wanted her to cooperate without hesitation, but she _is_ surprised they knew which items were hidden. No one expects an innocent bracelet to activate into the blood-curdling face of Medusa.

A man rolls in―literally rolls in; he’s in a wheelchair―and Thalia springs to her feet, holds herself in a balanced position, already in a fighting stance.

He’s middle-aged, wrinkled like a prune, brown-bearded, could probably be decent in a brawl, but it depends on how swift he can move in the wheelchair. He has a tweed jacket, tie, and a blanket cloaking his lap, protruding a pair of polished shoes. The man doesn’t look like a monster, but she’s encountered her fair share of monsters, and if they taught her anything, it’s that nobody "normal" could be trusted.

His face fixes into mild surprise when she stands, but it’s only for a second before he presents a tray of a fresh loaf of bread, ripe grapes, and a glass of what she thinks is apple juice, but as he places it on the table, she realizes it’s nectar. The drink of the gods. A healing elixir.

“You’re up,” he notes. He doesn’t say _you’re awake_ or _good morning,_ which makes her wonder if he knows she didn’t sleep. “Drink. You’re pale.”

Thalia outstretches a hand―then stops. Pulls her hand away. Takes a step back.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he reasons, rolling closer.

“If that―if that were true, I would have my spear and shield,” she says, quivering, stepping back again, hating how her feet tremble and shake and joggle and― _gods_ ―how exhausted is she? “Where are my things?” Thalia demands, attempting to keep the alarm from her voice. “Where are you keeping Luke? Annabeth? How about Grover? Where―”

“I―”

“What―what happened to me? Why am I here? I thought―I thought I was―”

“You’re too weak right now, let―”

“No, where―where are my friends? I need―I need to know―”

“Thalia, please sit down and let me explain, you’re going to fall―”

“Tell me where they are!” she hollers, because she’s disoriented, she’s distressed, she’s _tired,_ and if anything― _anything_ ―happened to them, she doesn’t think she can forgive herself.

“Safe,” he says, intolerably soft, and she’s startled by how much she believes him. How much she wants to believe him. His face is perturbed as he retreats from her. “They’re safe.”

She blinks, deciphering what he’s saying, gawking as he rolls to the exit. Thalia can sense her legs on the brink of collapsing, but she’s not giving him the satisfaction of being right, not going to admit to herself that she's _weak._

She’s not going to break.

She braces her hand against the wall.

Just as he’s about to open the door, she asks, “All of them?”

The man halts abruptly. Doesn’t meet her gaze. Purses his lips.

“All of them,” he confirms quietly, then leaves without another word.

# 

* * *

Another visitor wants to see her.

Thalia's sleeping―well, not really, she's just lying down and failing to sleep―and listening to the faint sounds of laughter outside when the doorknob twists and jiggles, opening the door. She doesn't jump up this time, simply inclines her head, waiting for whoever it is to offer her food or urge her to drink, but she's not buying it, she's not giving in, not until―not until― _until_ ―

"Thalia?"

_Wait._

_No, no, no._

_Wait._

Thalia gapes, dumbfounded as a girl sets foot in the living room, shutting the door behind her. She's young, in her pre-teens, with familiar curly blonde hair and gray eyes, but it’s―it’s―she’s _different._ She's taller than Thalia remembers, all the baby fat gone, a couple of blemishes and acne on her forehead. She must've changed completely because, gods, Thalia would never allow her to wear a fucking _bright orange_ T-shirt.

But it's definitely small Annabeth.

It's definitely her.

And Annabeth―

Annabeth is here.

And all Thalia does is gawk and wonders how much small Annabeth changed and gods she is _old._

And―

And they―

And they should be hugging.

They should be running into each other's arms, sobbing into shoulders, thanking the gods that they have each other after an attack, celebrating that Thalia’s―that Thalia’s alive, and all that _godsdamn_ cheesy stuff from drama movies.

But all they do is stare.

Like time stops.

Annabeth gulps. Tentatively comes closer, but halts a distance away from her.

"You―you should eat," Annabeth stammers, eyes following the cold tray. "You were...you...at the pine tree―"

"Is this Camp Half-Blood?" Thalia croaks, her voice steady. Steadier than before. "The one Grover...the one he told us about? I can hear...I can hear all that laughter, the forest, that man in the wheelchair...he's the camp director?"

Annabeth nods. Shakes her head. Stops. Pinches her brows. "This...this _is_ Camp Half-Blood, yeah. But, uh, no, that man was Chiron. He's just the, uh, activities director." She stares at Thalia more, a hand reaching up to her forehead. “I’m...I’m sorry, I...this is a lot to take in. It’s been so long―”

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long has it been?" Thalia repeats. "Since...since I―"

 _Died,_ she wants to say, but she can't bring herself to.

Can't believe it.

Can't _accept_ it.

Annabeth opens her mouth. Closes it. Winces.

"Long," she whispers, as if saying the exact number would be too painful. "Very long."

The thought doesn’t settle well with Thalia.

Annabeth rubs her too-long arm, then inches closer to the window, parting them just a tad. "Do you...do you want a look? At camp?"

Thalia hesitates, her eyes on Annabeth’s shirt. _CHB. Camp Half-Blood._ "Maybe...maybe later. I'm a bit...a bit tired." She reclines on the couch again, putting her arms under her head. "I need―I need to think."

"Yeah." Annabeth nods firmly, her hand already on the doorknob. "Yeah. Me too."

# 

* * *

Thalia gazes at the ceiling.

Annabeth’s already her age― _is Thalia even the same age? Fuck if she knows._

She’s not seven.

She spent years of her life without her.

She doesn’t want to talk to her.

She doesn’t come back.

Thalia huffs, burying her face in the couch cushions.

# 

* * *

The world is so fucking cruel.

# 

* * *

Grover comes by once.

She watches as he enters, hooves stepping into the farmhouse like it’ll potentially explode, a woven basket in his hands, overflowing with freshly picked strawberries. Like Annabeth, he also seems like he's grown. Taller, prominent horns, thicker goatee. Same bright shirt, too. He yelps when he catches sight of her staring.

"Oh! Thalia! You―you’re―"

"Hi," she says monotonously, then points at the basket. "Those for me?"

"What? Oh, um, yeah. Only―only if you want some."

Grover gingerly places the basket in her hands, which she tosses on the table next to all her uneaten food. Thalia grumbles something unintelligible before tucking herself in.

"Um,” he sputters, eying the table cluttered with multiple trays of untouched food, all of them rotting and growing bacteria. “You haven't been―um, you haven't been eating?"

Thalia clenches her jaw. “No.”

“You—you should really eat. Chiron said—um, I mean, you—you’re going to have to eventually, you know—”

“I’m not eating.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m just—just saying that—" 

_"Grover."_

"I came to check up on you, so you really need—”

"Oh, for the gods’ sake, I don't need to eat!" she snaps, some of her hair floating up, sparking with electricity.

Grover retracts his feet, stumbling over the rugs to bolt away from her. His eyes are wide in shock and his bottom lip is trembling and there’s―there’s something so young about the way he looks at her―and―and he looks―he looks the same as he did that night―

Thalia’s face falls. "Wait―wait, no, I'm―I'm sorry. It's just―"

"You don't need to tell―to tell me," he mutters, his eyes watering, a hand going up to his face to wipe away the tears. "I know that―I know that it's...that you're angry at me―"

"What? Why would I be―"

A loud horn blows, reverberating deeply, causing Thalia to cover her ears.

He winces, scrambling to open the door. "I―I should go. Just―just eat. Please. They're ripe."

"Grover―"

She’s too late. He’s already slamming the door behind him when she extends a hand.

_"Wait!"_

He doesn’t come back.

# 

* * *

She thinks about running after him.

Then she thinks about his face, fearful and alone and lost.

She doesn’t think about it anymore.

# 

* * *

The days slip by.

Thalia lingers in the living room, relearning how to summon sparks of electricity, listening to the sounds of campers doing whatever deranged things campers do when they’re half god.

 _This is the Big House,_ the man in the wheelchair―Chiron―had told her when he was playing a game of cards with the real camp director, Mr. D. The god of wine. Alcohol. Thalia thinks her mother would’ve gotten along with him. _You’re not a prisoner here. You can go outside if you wish._

She doesn’t wish to.

She doesn’t wish to see it.

She doesn’t wish to be reminded.

# 

* * *

At least she’s eating now.

# 

* * *

She's aged.

Her body isn't quite what it was before―before―

It’s not quite what it was _before._

Thalia first discerns this when she catches her reflection in the glass of water. It’s a warped image, but she can tell her face is sharper. Older. Aged. No longer twelve years old. Her eyes are wider, her nose thin and her lips full.

She grips the glass tightly.

There’s something sickening about seeing herself like this, seeing herself look picture perfect with no grime and no scars and no wounds and no indications that she’s earned every painful victory, every gut-wrenching win, every vicious fight, and now―now with her thin nose and soft lips and clear skin―and now she looks― _fuck, now she looks like―_

Thalia shatters the glass.

# 

* * *

Mr. D is the one who cleans up the mess.

He sends her a dirty glare, but doesn’t ask her about it.

She wonders if he really does care.

# 

* * *

Nights are strenuous to get through.

Sometimes she lies awake, pretending to be asleep when Chiron rolls through to head to bed.

She inspects the silhouettes of trees and kids dance across the ceiling, like they were playing out memories. Taunting her. Mocking her. Reminding her.

Every night Thalia hears shrieks and sobs and cries and someone yelling her name, _Thalia, Thalia, Thalia don’t do this, Thalia you can’t fight them on your own, Thalia no―_

And every night she needs to remind herself that _she’s okay, she’s okay, she’s okay, she’s alive, she’s alive―_

# 

* * *

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

Thalia jerks her head towards the front door, where Chiron’s in his centaur form, curlers in his tail, hooves clip-clopping closer to her spot on the railing. So this is how he looked when he’s a centaur. She purses her lips and gazes at the tenebrous woods.

He pauses beside her.

Neither of them speak.

Crickets trill.

Trees rustle.

“It’s okay to have nightmares,” he attempts to reassure her. “Many demigods have them.”

She stays silent.

She’s silent for a long, long time.

# 

* * *

Thalia takes small peeks at Camp Half-Blood.

Grover didn’t have the most wonderful storytelling voice back then, but the _way_ he said it―the way he made the place sound like those of mythical paradises where you can live free, where you can live forever blissful; like an Elysium without dying―it makes her want to know. It makes her want to see for herself.

She nudges open the curtains.

At first glance, all she sees is green. Bright, vibrant green, the kind that looks superficial. But then as she opens the curtains wider, she can make out shapes―marble buildings with doric columns, a wide open sky, clusters of cabins in the woods, campers clothed in ugly orange T-shirts while participating in activities like archery, strawberry farming, pegasus riding―it’s astonishing. It’s a miracle. It looks like somebody had made her dreams a reality. She’s always fantasized about a haven, a sanctuary, someplace _safe―_

And then someone walks by and looks at her.

It’s a young boy, Annabeth’s age, with black hair and green eyes and sporting soiled armor and dripping gallons of sweat, twirling a pen in his hand and gulping down a bottle of water. His jaw drops a little when he notices her and there’s a nagging hunch at the back of her mind, something about him that _screams_ at her, something about him that’s vaguely dangerous, something that makes her blood cold, something―

Thalia yanks the curtains shut.

# 

* * *

She takes exactly one nap.

She dreams of that night.

She doesn’t take naps anymore.

# 

* * *

A few nights later, Chiron approaches her again.

She refuses to look at his face.

“The Zeus Cabin is open,” he says to her. She doesn’t know why he bothers. “You can stay there. We just finished, ah, renovations. I’m afraid the couch is slightly unappealing.”

“I’ve slept in worse,” she replies, because it’s the truth.

She considers the cabin, though. No more centaur. No more grumbling god. No more man with a thousand eyes on his body. It’s a pleasant thought.

Thalia notices he’s in his wheelchair this time. “How do you do that?”

“Sit in a wheelchair? It’s actually quite difficult. I need―”

“Not sitting in it. Just―y’know, _tricking_ our eyes. How do you do that?”

Chiron scratches his beard. “Do you know what the Mist is?”

“Some sort of veil,” she explains, not caring much about a full clarification. “You can use it?”

“In a way.” There’s a pause. “Would you like to learn?”

Thalia raises her gaze.

# 

* * *

_The Mist,_ she thinks as she snaps, the air cooling at her fingertips, _is a powerful tool._

# 

* * *

“Hey.”

Thalia glances back from her spot on the porch rail. Annabeth stands not too far away from her, her blonde hair tied, her eyes gaunt, her face guarded. The orange camp T-shirt is filthy now, patchy from whatever outdoor activities she’s done in the past few days. She surveys Thalia’s position on the railing, her back leaning on the porch post, a knee tucked underneath her chin, the other balancing herself on the balusters.

Thalia’s been watching the campers for a while, allowing them to take turns gawking at her and murmuring and gossiping. Nobody bothered to introduce themselves, which was good. She would’ve electrocuted them, anyway.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Mind if I join you?” Annabeth asks.

Thalia blinks. “Oh. Yeah, knock yourself out.”

As Annabeth hauls herself onto the railing, Thalia’s awestruck on how much she’s changed, but also how much she hasn’t. She still twirls her hair when she’s nervous and she still swings her legs when she feels awkward. It’s comforting. That some things never change.

They watch the camp continue to thrive.

Thalia notices that some campers had schedules. She notices they walk in groups, pushing shoulders and chasing each other through the grass. She notices that she used to be like that. And she wonders...she wonders if she could be that happy again. Thalia creases her brows, fingers rubbing her wrist. She wonders that a lot.

“Do you know what happened?” Annabeth asks her after a while.

“Only pieces.” She presses her lips together. “I remember dying.”

Annabeth flinches.

A wind breezes by, smelling like sweet strawberries and grass and pine needles and sweaty campers.

“You were a tree,” Annabeth mumbles, fiddling with her beaded necklace. “You didn’t...you didn’t exactly die. You were a tree.”

Thalia raises a brow at her. “Look, I know I was dead, but that doesn’t make me _stupid._ ”

“No, no, it’s true.” Annabeth looks her in the eye now, desperate. “Thals―uh, Thalia―you were―your dad―” she swallows. “Your dad turned you into a tree. He...he preserved your spirit―soul, whatever.” She stared hard in the distance. "He saved you."

As much as Thalia loathes her father, the words don’t fail to keep her hopes up. The idea that Zeus might have the slightest inkling of affection for her, the idea that he cares about her enough, the idea that he believes she’s worthy of something like his attention―

She stops herself.

Isn’t that what they all wanted? For their godly parent to save them from whatever sins they’ve seen in the mortal world? To be seen as godly and not pathetically mortal? To be―to be seen as a _god?_ Shit, now she―now she’s starting to sound like―

“Oh.” Thalia dips her chin down. “Yeah. Okay.”

They’re silent after that.

Her eyes rove along the meadows, the trees, until they finally land on a large pine, standing tall on top of a hill. That must’ve been where she was. Where she died. It’s out of place between all the other trees, further from the forest. There’s something...glittering there. Like a...like a blanket draped on a branch, but it’s glittering like fucking sequins. And yet she can’t help but...she can’t help but think―

“Annabeth?”

“Yeah?”

“How am I...” Thalia strokes her wrist, wishing she had her bracelet. “How am I here?”

Annabeth gives her a weird look.

"Alive,” she amends. “How am I alive?"

“Oh.” Annabeth shifts uneasily. “Yeah, uh, your tree…” she trails off, suddenly breaking eye contact and observing the pine tree. “We...we went on a quest―quests are like journeys to...to prove your worth and do a deed of some sort―and we decided to get the Golden Fleece. The one from the myths. It healed you.” She glances up at her. “It brought you back.”

Thalia crosses her arms. “You went on the quest?”

Annabeth hesitates for a second, then nods.

Thalia doesn’t know what to think about that.

She watches the sun disappear behind the trees, bright oranges and pinks splashing against the sky, a sign signaling the conclusion of the day. A familiar horn blows in the distance. The doors to a few colorful, peculiar looking cabins open and energetic campers sprint out, heading towards the same marble-columned pavilion.

“You should go,” Thalia suggests. “Looks like they’re having dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Really?” She had to chuckle at that. “You were always hungry when we were on the road.”

Annabeth’s expression hardens. “Yeah, well we’re not on the road anymore.”

“Right.” Thalia leans her head against the porch post, her fingers returning to her wrist. “Right.”

# 

* * *

She doesn’t feel okay.

She doesn’t feel alive.


	2. i swear i lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. well this took long to write.
> 
> ii. beta read by [Floretfall.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Floretfall/pseuds/Floretfall)

Thalia moves out of the Big House and into the Zeus cabin.

She doesn’t miss it.

# 

* * *

Annabeth drops off some photos.

They’ve been talking frequently now. She tells her how the camp system works, like who the people in charge are, what activities she can do, the scheduling, camp necklaces, blah, blah, blah. There are too many rules, too many things to mindlessly follow, so Thalia politely listens, but doesn’t point out how aggravating it is when she’s mothering her.

But it’s nice.

It’s nice having her back.

Thalia’s glaring at the twenty-foot tall colored statue of her father in immaculate Greek robes and sandals, feeling small compared to him, a scowl straining her face. The cabin’s dim and desolate. There’s a tempestuous storm rumbling in the ceiling, trapped and confined, knowing that it’s too powerful to be imprisoned in such a dreary space.

Thalia’s something like a raging storm.

_I want to know why I’m here,_ she prays silently, eyes fixed on her father’s face. _I want...just this once. I want your help._

The statue is quiet.

_Why did you do it? Why did you save me?_

Nothing.

Thalia swallows firmly to keep the ache in her throat at bay. She used to pray to him every day when she was twelve. Does he not listen? Does he think his mortal daughter means anything? Gods, she wants him to just―she wants her dad to―she wants―wants―

The door creaks open.

She spins, seeing Annabeth standing there with a backpack slung over her shoulder, her hair weaved into a plait braid, gray eyes studying the Zeus statue, legs just a little too long, her height just a little too tall, and Thalia doesn’t think she’ll ever be over just how much she’s _grown._

“What are you looking at?” Annabeth asks.

“What? Oh, nothing, just…” Thalia hastily pries her gaze off of it. “The statue is just, y’know, creepy.” She smiles. “You have a big statue of Athena in your cabin?”

“I mean, Malcolm’s trying to build one…” Annabeth grabs the backpack by its shoulder straps, supporting it up for her to see. “But anyway, I thought you might want to have this.”

Thalia sweeps her eyes over it precipitously, not caring much for backpacks, but then she drops her jaw. The backpack is worn. Muddy. Patched with patterned, square-shaped cloth. It’s faded navy blue with a grassy, green chlorophyll stained bottom, loose stitches, charred fabric, and looks like it went through hell at least twice, but Thalia would know it anywhere.

“This―this is my old backpack. From when we were traveling.” She receives it from her, examining the filthy bag, her heart swelling with nostalgia and emotion, like light piercing through her. “You kept it?”

“Yeah. Uh, not _me,_ exactly…” Annabeth hesitates before glancing over at the alcoves, searching for a subject change. “You don’t want to sleep near the statue, right?”

Thalia shrugs. “I guess.”

“Why don’t you sleep there?” She points to the alcove carved inside the wall. “We can move the brazier. There’s a bedroll in your backpack, so we can try setting it up and adding in your own belongings if you want.”

Annabeth goes on, telling Thalia how they could rearrange decor here and there. The plan isn’t picture perfect with a cozy bunk bed or illuminating fairy lights or any of that shit, which Thalia feels grateful for, but she’s also a little surprised that Annabeth would go out of her way to make Thalia comfortable. There’s a familiar smile on Annabeth’s face as she talks, something that Thalia hasn’t seen in a while, not since she woke up. 

Yeah.

Yeah, it’s good to have her back.

# 

* * *

When Annabeth leaves, Thalia sifts through her old baggage, finding a collapsible Mace canister in one pocket and a metal-linked bracelet in another. She wears them, bracelet on her wrist, canister attached to her belt loops. She almost feels like herself.

She digs deeper, tossing aside extra clothes that are several sizes too small for her, picking up a few dollar bills and quarters and drachmas, a camera, and some pen eyeliner. Each item scatters across the floor. Seeing them―possessions, lost items she had discovered and made her own; remnants from her past―all laid out in front of her makes her feel better. Almost heartwarming.

Thalia’s at the bottom of the pile now, so she picks up some of the last few things―

And then she stops.

Holds out a photograph in front of her face.

An old, frayed memory of her past.

And then she stares, furrows her brows, and thinks.

# 

* * *

The storm wakes her up.

Thalia pants as the reverberation of thunder booms throughout the cabin and she reaches down to tap her bracelet, but then realizes it’s nothing. She’s not in danger and the crackle of the storm is just a normal thing in the Zeus cabin and she shouldn’t be scared, she shouldn’t be frightened, she shouldn’t be sweating out of her mind, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t, but she _is―_

Thalia curls into a ball.

_I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m alive, I’m alive, alive, alive, alive―_

# 

* * *

There’s a vibrant orange T-shirt sitting by her bedroll when morning arrives.

She doesn’t wear it.

# 

* * *

The dining pavilion is a mess.

Thalia sits all by her lonesome at the Zeus table, gaining a few occasional stares, consuming the loaves of bread and grapes and strawberries and goblets that could fucking _refill,_ and _gods_ she wishes she could’ve had this much food when she was homeless. 

Annabeth tells her that demigods must sit at their godly parent’s table, which, Thalia thinks, is fucking stupid, but then again, she doesn’t want to be pulverized by the camp director, Mr. D. But there’s something...something hollow in her when she watches the other campers drink and laugh and eat with each other.

She squeezes her hand around a goblet.

She wishes she can shatter it.

That was _her,_ once upon a time, living imprudently with her best friends.

And then...and then she sees she’s not the only isolated table.

Across the pavilion is another solitary kid, picking at his abnormal blue food with a silver fork, gaze trained on another table, probably thinking the same thing she is. And it’s...it’s _weird._ Annabeth had told her all the tables, made her memorize them for gods’ sake...and...and that kid is sitting at the Poseidon table―

All her senses are suddenly alert when he looks up and catches her staring and oh no, he’s the same boy she saw out the window, the same exact one, but then why―why―Grover had told her that she was the only one, unless― _unless― **unless** ―_

# 

* * *

She finds Grover sitting at the edge of the forest by some plants, playing the reed pipes. He’s looking at them intently, his mouth blowing against the reeds, creating a soft, melodic tune. He’s sitting criss-crossed, and she perceives he’s beginning to freckle more, the way she used to when she was twelve.

“Grover?”

He jumps, the reed pipes fumbling in his hands, gaping at her with wide eyes. “Oh, it’s―it’s you! Thalia, uh.” He swallows. Uneasily. Anxiously. “Hi.”

“Hey.” She gestures to the spot beside him. He catches sight of the bracelet around her wrist, making a small, strangled sound. “Can I sit down?”

Grover nods frantically. She bends down to sit on the grass. They're muted. Tense. Awkward.

“Um, I saw you at the pavilion," Grover finally says, rubbing his arms. "You’re eating.”

“Yeah." Thalia rests her elbows in the dirt, fully aware that she'll get her jacket soiled. "Thought it was about time. I wouldn’t want to die again.”

Grover flinches. “Um, right…”

He begins to fidget, twirling a beaded necklace around his fingers. She catches sight of some of the beads; a pine tree, a centaur, another pine tree with the Golden Fleece, a trident―

“Am I the only Big Three kid?” she blurts out.

Grover hesitates and gawks at her. “What are―um, what?”

Thalia considers her words. “I saw another camper. Sitting at the, uh, Poseidon table. He’s got―he’s got this―this _aura_ about him. I can’t...can’t explain it.” But she can tell. She can tell that there’s something odd about him, something that makes her conjecture if she’s not the only mistake in the world. “So, am I?”

Grover becomes eerily motionless. Then he glimpses up with a solemn expression, no timid or agitated or jittery movements, just a vacant, grave face that's alien on him. “No,” Grover states. “You’re not.”

# 

* * *

There’s something consoling in not being the only one.

# 

* * *

Thalia’s looking through old photographs when Percy Jackson comes into her cabin.

He shuts the door cautiously, glances up at the statue of Zeus with revulsion, then is startled when he spots her.

“Uh. Hey.” Percy clears his throat. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Thalia frowns. “This is the Zeus Cabin.”

“No, I meant...” he shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

She dumps the photos in her backpack. “You mean you thought I’d be dead?”

Percy doesn’t flinch. He chuckles. “Uh, no. I thought you’d be with Annabeth or something.” He holds out a flimsy piece of paper with Greek lettering. “Chiron told me to leave this beside your bed―is that a bed? Actually, it―it doesn’t matter. But, uh, since you’re already here―”

Thalia snatches it out of his hands, skimming over it. “What’s this?”

“Your schedule.”

“Schedule?”

“Y’know, a...a plan. Of events and activities you do. It’s not that hard, just a procedure―”

“I know what a schedule is,” Thalia snaps, her hair bristling with electricity.

Percy narrows his eyes like _she_ is the one being a nuisance. Unbelievable.

Thalia flips it over. “Why do I need a schedule?”

“Well, you’re going to be a camper here, aren’t you?” Percy seats himself onto the floor beside her. “You don’t have other family, right? Annabeth says you never mentioned anything about your mom with her, so―”

“I don’t _need_ a schedule.” She flicks the paper at his face.

Percy seizes it before it can encounter the ground. “But all campers―”

“I don’t need a schedule,” she repeats.

“It’s long overdue.” Percy shoves it back into her grip. “It’s been a week since you got, uh, brought back and you’ve only been to the dining pavilion this morning and Chiron thinks―”

“I don’t give two shits about what he thinks,” Thalia retorts, holding it up to her face, examining the schedule. “Okay, how about this: I attend archery, sword fighting, tracking, and volleyball. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Percy frowns. “What are you going to do with all the extra free time?”

“None of your business.”

“Look,” Percy says, “I know Grover told you about me being Poseidon’s kid. I’m the only camper in my cabin.”

“So?”

“You’re the only camper in your cabin, too. We’re supposed to, y’know, look out for each other.” He taps the paper. “This is just a copy of my schedule. I need to be with you every second of the day, so whatever you want to do, save it for free time. I gotta stick with you―”

“And why is that?”

“Don’t you want a guide?”

“No. Do you think I’m helpless?”

Percy frowns. “Annabeth told me to.”

“Annabeth’s not the boss. She can’t control you and she can’t control me.”

“Yeah. But she’s my friend. Ever heard of one?”

“I was her friend first. She’ll understand.”

“Yeah, that’s what Luke said before he―” he widens his eyes at his own words, then clamps his mouth shut.

Thalia freezes at the mention of his name. “Before he what?”

“Let’s―let’s just go,” Percy mumbles, snatching the paper from her. “We have wrestling.”

# 

* * *

There’s something irritating in not being the _only one._

# 

* * *

“You didn’t need to pull every muscle in my body. Or, like, electrocute me. That’s probably, uh, cheating,” Percy mutters afterwards. A couple of nearby campers from wrestling lessons snicker at him, causing his ears to burn. "Could've at least saved me the embarrassment."

Thalia shrugs. "Whatever."

She smirks when he stumbles over a rock.

# 

* * *

Thalia follows her schedule now.

It doesn’t mean she likes it.

# 

* * *

There are cabin inspections. Which, she thinks again, are fucking stupid. Some senior counselors are examining the cabins today, so when her cabin door opens, she expects to see some strangers with clipboards and a superiority complex.

Instead, she sees Percy fucking Jackson. It’s like he’s fucking _following_ her. Or Annabeth’s tells him to follow her. The thought makes her pop her ball of bubblegum.

He pauses at the door. Kicks a Hubba Bubba bubble tape can. Peers at the candy bar wrappers littered around her bedroll, the stray jackets she didn’t bother to fold, the crinkled, days-old Apple & Eve juice boxes, the tarnished radio playing garbled music and the occasional shrieking static.

Percy cocks his head to the side. She prays he doesn’t scold her to clean up the place, the way she knows Annabeth would, but instead, he questions, “Where did you get all this?”

“There’s a camp store,” Thalia answers, smacking the gum between teeth.

“I didn’t see a radio in the camp store.”

“That’s mine. I brought it along with me when I was homeless.”

“It still works?”

Thalia gestures to the working radio. “What? No. No way. Of course it doesn’t. It’s not like―”

“Okay. I get it. Stupid question.” Percy rubs the back of his neck. “Just trying to make conversation.”

He shouldn’t bother. What’s she going to make a conversation about? How she hates this camp? Hates not finding any leads to where her mom is? Hates being so alone, avoided by Grover and Annabeth, the two people she actually knows? Hates that she’s died and everything’s changed and she’s left out and she still can’t figure out what the _fuck_ is happening?

Thalia blows bubblegum from the margin between her lips.

Percy’s settled on the floor, a good distance from her, probably wondering if she’ll electrocute him again. The memory almost makes her smile. He’s flipping through the magazines she’s tossed on the floor. She was attempting to catch up to whatever she’s missed out in the past year―or, uh, six years, seven years, eight years, a thousand years―fuck, she doesn’t know. She just wanted to look at celebrity gossip she’ll never read again.

“What’s this?” Percy clasps a black-and-white newspaper, inked with photos of a woman with light hair, posing for the camera. Thalia’s heart sinks as she reads the headline: _BERYL GRACE: WHERE IS SHE NOW?_ “Who’s Beryl Grace? Wasn’t she―”

“Nothing,” she hisses, lunging at him, ripping the paper from his hands, tearing the flimsy paper. “It’s nothing. She’s nobody.” Thalia crumples up the news and chucks it into her backpack. “Just some dumb news.”

The ghost of a smile is on his lips. “Yeah. _Dumb news._ ”

Thalia scowls. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Not about Brittney―uh, Berry― _Beryl,_ just…” Percy toys with a wrinkled wrapper, creasing it into tiny squares, unfolding it, folding it again. “I don’t know. It―the newspaper―just reminded me of my first day at camp. There weren’t any newspapers in the camp store, but somebody brought it to me. I, uh, made the news with my mom that day. A couple days after, actually, but the event happened on my first day.”

She snorts. “Why? You guys blow up a building? Get in an accident? Murder case?”

“We went missing.” Percy sets down the wrapper. He folded it into an origami boat. “We took Gabe’s―uh, my stepfather’s car and booked it. My mom got kidnapped and I came here.”

Thalia raises an eyebrow. “Your stepfather get mad? That you took the car?”

“Oh yeah. He was furious.” Percy smiles tightly. “But he isn’t a problem anymore.”

Thalia wonders why he seems so cheerful, but then she thinks about her own mom and her boyfriends and gives into the fact that maybe, _maybe,_ she would feel the same way. She would steal their dumb cars. Maybe not get kidnapped, but she’d steal a car. She tried to do it before. It didn’t end well.

Thalia crosses her arms and leans against the wall, swiping her tongue against the gum stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Did you ever find her? Your mom?”

“Of course.” Percy taps his fingers against the floor. “She’s the best person in the world, actually. Owned a candy shop once. I think she wants to be a writer. She...she was there for me when my dad wasn’t.”

She chews harder. There’s something bitter, ironic, fucking _insulting_ that even though Percy’s mom goes missing, he still finds her. She hears the way he fucking talks about his mom. He never shuts up, even now, going on and on about how her, and Thalia really fucking wishes he would. Her own mom never went out of her way to pay some quality time with her daughter, and in a way, she was worse than Zeus. At least her dad didn’t see her every day and disregard her like she was a fucking nuisance.

Or maybe he did see her every day.

Thalia doesn’t fucking know how the gods work.

“How about you?” Percy asks mid-rant, clearly noticing that she isn’t listening. “Did you make the news when you ran away? Missing twelve year old? Eleven year old, ten year old―whatever year old. Did your mom look for you?”

No.

No, she didn’t.

It doesn’t matter if her disappearance was over five years ago. It doesn’t matter because Thalia knows in her heart that her mother would never search for her own children. It hurts. A little. Beryl Grace had lost one of her children. What was the difference if she misplaced another?

But Percy’s different. He’s got a loving mom, Grover’s his loving friend, he’s got the camp’s loving attention. She clenches her fists, knuckles turning pale. She’s heard how Grover talks about him. Like he fucking hung the moon and painted the stars. She wonders if anybody talked about her that way. Probably not. Nobody cared about the girl who had sacrificed her life on that hill. Nobody cared because almost nobody had known her the way they had known Percy. She’s just a fucking symbol of hope and light and peace and bravery, but nobody had _known_ her.

“Get out,” she hisses, spitting her bubblegum on a wrapper, static causing her hair to levitate.

“What?” Percy asks, backing away fearfully. “Why?”

“I said _get out._ ” Thunder from the ceiling rumbles like an alarm. Like a warning.

“Woah, _okay._ Fine.” Percy rises to his feet, speed walking to the door, gives her one last, final look. She doesn’t know what it means. Anger? Confusion? It doesn’t matter, she guesses, as Percy slams the door on her. It doesn’t matter. Everybody’s always frustrated with her. She’s frustrated at _herself._

She’s used to it.

# 

* * *

Thalia eats her breakfast alone.

Percy eats his breakfast alone.

They glare at each other across the pavilion the entire time.

# 

* * *

Percy and Annabeth are friends, it turns out.

Thalia spots them hanging around Camp Half-Blood all the time, whether it's canoeing or swimming or sparring or talking or strawberry picking, they're always together, always stuck to each other like glue. Like they can't bear to be away from one another for more than twenty-four hours. Like they'll die if they're apart for twenty-four hours.

It's stupid.

It's stupid how much Annabeth's been making new friends, new relationships, new hobbies, new habits, new ideas, and Thalia wasn't fucking _there._ It's selfish, she knows. Annabeth can make as many friends as she pleases.

Thalia just never expected that Annabeth would stop being _her_ friend in the process.

# 

* * *

Capture the Flag games are on Fridays.

Thalia and Percy are always on the same fucking team.

# 

* * *

She tries to stab him a couple times.

Annabeth yells at her.

# 

* * *

Thalia wipes slick sweat from her forehead, observing the arena. Percy’s thrusting and twirling his sword, demonstrating some sword fighting moves to the younger campers.

“I can teach you something, too,” Percy offered after they had sparred. Eager campers filed into the arena with childlike curiosity, gawking at the metal blades stupidly. “In case you ever want to try something new.”

“My spear’s enough,” Thalia had replied flatly, then headed to the seats.

She didn’t need lessons from Percy of all people.

# 

* * *

Percy’s good at sparring, actually.

Astounding.

Skilled.

Like a prodigy.

# 

* * *

“He’s not that bad once you get to know him,” Annabeth tells her as they watch one of Percy's many sparring practices. Thalia has the sneaking suspicion that Annabeth enjoys watching Percy show off his moves, but she doesn't voice it out loud. "I mean, I still think he's annoying, but to be honest, he can be really smart when he wants to be. And he's, uh, passionate. And reckless. And brave." Annabeth twists her necklace. "Sometimes he...he reminds me of you."

Thalia grunts disinterestedly in response.

Percy does _not_ remind her of herself.

Percy’s leaning against his sword, resting for a moment as his sparring partner takes a look at the other weapons. He briefly looks up at them and grins widely, raising an enthusiastic hand to wave at Annabeth. She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning, too, and if Thalia squints past the sun’s glare, she can notice that Annabeth’s _blushing._ At Percy.

"Do you like him?"

"What?" Annabeth rips her gaze away.

"Do you _like_ him?” Thalia persists. Percy’s sparring practice has almost begun. “As in, more than a friend?"

Annabeth stubbornly looks away, biting the inside of her cheek. Thalia narrows her eyes.

In the arena, she sees swords clashing together, metal against metal. Percy ducks as his opponent’s sword flies over his head, then he parries, deflects, another thrust, another swipe. Sunlight reflects against his skin, gleaming with sweat. His chest is heaving. He breathes through his nose and releases through his mouth. Clouds of dust flit around them as they proceed into different positions, bedaubing their legs with dirt.

His stance is steady, his eyes are trained on his opponent, his feet are quick and light, and it’s painfully, punishingly _familiar._ The way he does it. The way he plants his feet in the ground, but never lingers in one spot too long, scanning for weaknesses, searching for something to exploit and turn against them. A natural fighter, she would call him. She would know. She’s been told she was one, told by―by―

"He fights like Luke," Thalia blurts out. She can't seem to hold back the harshness of her tone, can't keep the thought to herself, can't seem to make the words not sound like an accusation.

Annabeth hardens her jaw. "Excuse me?"

"Percy fights like Luke.” She pauses. “They all fight like Luke. He taught them all, didn't he? Before―before he―y’know." She rubs her bracelet. "You don't need to keep it from me," Thalia says eventually. "You don't...you don't need to avoid the topic."

Annabeth's posture slumps in defeat. "I was going to tell you," she mumbles, her head bowed. "I didn't realize someone else already told―"

"No one needed to tell me anything. I know Luke's dead. Grover told us a long time ago about demigods dying early, but I just―I just never thought Luke would. That's why he never came to visit me. It's kind of obvious. Luke would've―"

"What?" Annabeth interrupts. "Luke―you think Luke's _dead?_ "

Thalia blinks. "What else would he be?"

Annabeth’s eyebrows scrunch together. She opens her mouth. Hesitates. Avoids her gaze. Appears like she’s battling herself, thinking and rethinking, constantly at war.

She closes her eyes.

Takes a deep breath.

Waits.

"Thalia," she murmurs, "there's something I need to tell you."

# 

* * *

The words entwine themselves together, interlocking, grasping each other, barely braiding themselves into a coherent story as Annabeth makes an endeavor to explain what had happened over the past few years. Her voice sounds hollow and it cracks in a few places, but all Thalia does is sit there and watch the gloaming sky begin to form. She hears the story begin to form.

Thalia can comprehend only a handful of words. _Master Bolt. Percy. Princess Andromeda. Quest. Percy. Backbiter. Winged shoes. Scorpion. Kronos. Lord of Time. The Great Prophecy. Percy again._

_Sixteen against all odds. Sixteen, sixteen, sixteen._

She closes her eyes.

_Another chance to control the prophecy._

Annabeth can't even complete the explanation, eyes already glazing over, but she wipes the potential tears with her arm, refusing to weep, refusing to _break._

Thalia stiffens.

Annabeth reminds her of herself, much more than Percy ever will.

They sit there in silence as Thalia struggles to let the story―the _nightmare_ ―sink in.

She isn’t aware the match has ended.

There's one particular word that resonates through her mind, eternally reverberating, reciting itself over and over again, becoming familiar with it, attempting to grow used to the vowels and the pronunciation and the feeling and the _definition_ behind it. Thalia's been told before, by Halcyon Green, and now she's being told again. Yet she can't seem to wrap her head around the reality, because in her eyes, he would never betray anyone, he would never betray anyone, he would never―

_Traitor._

_Traitor._

_**Traitor**._

# 

* * *

Nights are strenuous to get through.

She lies awake, peering at the storm clouded ceiling, eyes flickering from each electric surge of lightning. She has never liked this cabin, has never liked Camp Half-Blood with its rules and schedules and gossipy campers. She's never liked Chiron or Mr. D or Percy Jackson. She's never liked the symbol of her death announced on a hill, always there, always watching, always taunting her.

She’s had monsters thrown in her path, left and right, all of them biting at her ankles, all of them bloodthirsty for a taste of the fucking _Zeus_ kid. And now she’s stuck in this stupid camp all because of a stupid prophecy and a bunch of stupid immortal hooligans, gods and titans alike, wanted to fling her around like a puppet on a string to amuse them.

She can't help but think Luke's right about their shitty, shitty parents.

# 

* * *

Does that make her a traitor, too?

# 

* * *

She doesn’t go to the campfire.

Thalia goes to the Big House. What a ridiculous name. She perches herself at the same spot every night and eyes the hazy tendrils of smoke ascend into the air, sparks crackling in the distance. She hears their voices, chatting and laughing and chorusing demigod nursery rhymes about monsters. She loathes feeling alone, but she can’t bring herself to become attached to other people again, to be _happy_ with people again, not like she was with Annabeth and―

Thalia tucks her legs in.

She _never_ goes to the campfire.

# 

* * *

Percy finds her one night.

He’s heading her way, stance stiff and legs swift. There’s a smear of ash on his legs, the effect of sitting too near the fire. His indistinct silhouette obscures him from his identity, and for a numbing, spine-chilling moment, she had speculated he was the ghost of Luke, haunting her, but it was just Percy Jackson, which wasn’t really an improvement.

“Hey.” Percy’s standing behind her on the porch. His hands are crammed inside his pockets. She deliberates if he’s doing that to hide that he’s gripping his pen. Thalia does that with her bracelet. “Uh, can I...can I join you?”

She doesn’t say yes, but she doesn’t say no, either.

Percy leans his elbows against the railing, striving so hard to be casual it’s physically irritating. She knows why he’s here. He knows that she knows. And even then, they eschew the matter as inconspicuously as attainable, resorting to silence rather than small talk. Somehow that just makes the air around them tense and thick enough for a knife to sever through.

“So,” Percy starts, running a hand through his hair, messing it up. “Annabeth told you about Luke?”

There it is. The elephant in the room. Camp. Porch. Whatever.

“She should’ve told me a long time ago,” Thalia murmurs quietly, too soft to possibly be real. “He was my friend.”

“Yeah,” Percy says eventually. “Yeah. Same.”

Thalia casts him a morose glance. There is no _same_ in this situation. How long has Percy known Luke? Annabeth had told her. Twelve years old. End of summer. At least two months. Three months. Whatever. Not a long time, not long enough to truly know Luke like she did, not long enough to be his best friend, not long enough to hear every complaint, every heartfelt confession, every bitter, bitter word. She knows him. She _did_ know him.

Siding with Kronos isn’t a big revelation, honestly. He’s never disclosed her with his feelings about his mom or his dad or his thoughts about the gods. Sure, the _signs_ were there, but it never showed such extremes. Thalia had talked about it with him. Only once. She wasn’t very open with him. They were small and full of rage and maybe a little bit hysterical. Insane. Infuriated. She had shared his feelings. She didn’t actually think he was _serious._ They were just feelings, and they had to learn to deal with it.

She assumed neither of them listened to her own advice.

It takes her a moment to cognize that Percy’s watching her, his eyes on her hands rubbing her bracelet. She stops. He frowns. “He’s wrong, y’know.”

She stays muted.

“He was. He _is._ He’s wrong.”

“Not more than anyone else.”

Percy presses his lips together, undeniably believing she’s also wrong. She could be. Or she could be correct. It’s a matter of perspective. Of morals. “Are you okay?”

She’s not. She’s never been okay. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I just...I just know how it feels. Luke betrayed me, too―”

“He didn’t betray me,” Thalia cuts in. _Traitor. Traitor. Traitor._ “I wasn’t even alive. How the fuck―how is he going to betray me if I’m dead―uh, gone?”

“He poisoned your tree.”

“I didn’t die from it.”

“Yeah,” Percy says, defensive. “That’s because _we_ got the Golden Fleece.”

“Yeah, and I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m now a prophecy child―whatever _that_ means―and now I have the fate of the world on my shoulders.” His stance tenses as soon as she utters _prophecy._ It doesn’t occur to her until now that Percy’s invariably deemed himself as the kid who could destroy the world.

“He tricked us,” Percy says flatly.

Thalia scowls. “He still didn’t betray me.”

“Look, he turned his back on camp―”

“I wasn’t a part of this stupid camp. I’m _not_ a part of this camp.” She can perceive his discomfort, but it’s the truth. She doesn’t feel like this is home. She wants to, but she _doesn’t._ Maybe it’s her fault. Maybe it’s the camp’s. Maybe it’s everyone’s. “He’s just―he’s just lost.”

“ _Lost?_ ” Percy repeats, deliriously vexed and amused at the same time. “Lost isn’t partying on a cruise ship while you’re planning to overthrow the world. Lost isn’t purposely endangering the camp by letting a hellhound in. Lost isn’t fucking―freaking, whatever―attempting to kill people.”

Thalia lowers her eyebrows. “Luke doesn’t _kill_ people. Just ask Annabeth. She doesn’t believe―”

“ _Annabeth?_ Really?” Percy opens his mouth again, but shuts it tight. Clenches his jaw. Like he’s deciding what to say. Figuring out if he’ll divulge too much. "He tried to kill us."

Her eyebrows shot up, mouth falling open. She closes it. “He didn’t,” she struggles to contend, persuading herself out loud. "Luke wouldn't―"

“Did she even tell you the full story?”

Thalia blinks. And then she does it again, second-guessing herself, querying her actions, questioning if she really did trust Annabeth. Questioning herself. And for the first time, Thalia’s confidence wavers. This had never happened when she was twelve, had never happened when she was young and the world was small and problems were insignificant and when the hell did everything get so complicated?

“You don’t know him like I do,” she claims, rebuffing the fact that maybe Percy’s right. That maybe she’s wrong.

"He tried to kill me himself. Twice. Three―wait, no, _four_ times. Maybe more. I don’t know.” Percy glowers irately in the distance. “You weren't there, Thalia. People change."

Yeah. They do. She knows that first-hand.

Annabeth’s strategizing war tactics, being buddies with Chiron, playing with chess pieces, befriending somebody as incompetent as Percy Jackson. Grover’s cavorting through fields of strawberries, avoiding her, playing his heart out on those reed pipes of his, gnawing on aluminum tin cans from the camp store at the lake. And Luke?

Luke’s gone.

And she really thought―she really thought she had found them. Friends. Family. Her dad’s running the universe, her mom never wanted her, and Jason’s probably been deceased for a couple of years. She thought she had found people who _wanted_ her. People who would stick by her side. If she extends deep within her mind, she can recoup the distant memories of her ambling around in public and seeing families bicker over maps, chortling at jokes, chasing each other around and she’s just standing there and _wanting._ Wanting to be like them. Wanting to have something like them.

And maybe she wanted to be loved, too.

“Just leave, Percy,” Thalia mutters, curling herself next to the post.

Percy doesn’t argue. He doesn’t look betrayed or confused or sad or angry. He straightens his back and soundlessly treads down the steps, one foot in front of the other, not too brisk to get away, not too sluggish to irk her. His feet skid along the grass, then cease. He glances back at her, face pensive and considering.

“You don’t have to go through this alone,” Percy says unfalteringly. “We’re all...we’re here for you. If you, y’know, if you ever need it.”

Thalia merely observes him with blank eyes. Blinks. Turns around again. It’s consoling, the way he said it, but it’s not enough.

He’ll leave her soon. They all leave eventually. 

She’s used to it.

# 

* * *

She’s seated in the Zeus Cabin.

Thalia holds up a photograph. An aged, frayed memory.

She glares at it.

Her fingers pinch the upper edge of the photo, prepared to tear it straight through the middle.

# 

* * *

She can't do it.

She can't.

She doesn't have the fucking guts.

She hates herself for it.

# 

* * *

The world is so, _so_ fucking cruel.

# 

* * *

“An all-girls boarding school,” Thalia says steadily, standing in the cluttered Athena cabin, contemplating her friend fiddling with a notepad scrawled with notes about who knows what. “Here. In New York.”

Annabeth nods, sneaking glimpses behind her to see if any of her cabin mates are listening in.

“And you want me to go with you?” Thalia chuckles a little. “You do realize I haven’t been in a single school since I was ten, right? I mean, I could probably multiply five times two or some shit, but trust me, I’m not the perfect choice.”

“But do _you_ want to go?” Annabeth counters.

Thalia swallows. Thinks about it. Camp has invariably been a pleasant dream for her―a home, a haven, a safe place―but now― _now_ all she wants to do is _leave._ She recalls the trashed newspaper in her backpack, deserted ever since Percy had encountered it, and she conjectures if this is her chance. To go. To locate her mom. Maybe they―maybe they could start over. It's a really big _maybe._

“Yeah. I do.” She sinks herself down to sit next to her, refraining from propping her dirty boots up on the table. “Anybody I know a year-rounder? Or does Percy live in a toilet outside of camp?”

“Nobody you know well,” she responds, ignoring her comment. “I used to be. Luke used to, but...you know.” Annabeth grimaces. Thalia clenches her jaw. “Percy has a new school his mom wants to try out,” she continues, idly scratching a pen onto the notepad, not really inscribing, just doodling clouds of cochleate lines and paper airplanes. “Grover’s getting ready to leave, too. Satyr duty stuff. They found some new demigods out there.”

“Oh,” Thalia replies, not really saying it, chapped lips glued together. She leans her chair back. “Grover hasn’t been talking to me.”

Annabeth raises a brow. “He’s just shocked, that’s all.”

“You were, too. Look at us now.” It isn’t an equitable comparison. They aren’t precisely how they used to be.

“I guess.” She gnaws the tip of her pen for a moment, then sets it down between them. “But he was...he was scared. The night you died,” she clarifies delicately, like the truth could slit her tongue. “He forgave himself eventually, but then when you showed up out of the blue―well, uh, let’s just say it was a _really_ big surprise.” Annabeth crosses her arms, tilting forward. “None of us have been the same since you were gone. We never―never really got over it.”

“Yeah. I know. Trust me, you act like it,” Thalia replies, bitter and vexed, but it’s only to suppress that she’s rather relieved. That they care. Even just a little bit. “How about Luke?” she queries, and just the mention of his name seems to make Annabeth fidget in her seat. “Did he ever get over it? Of me?”

Annabeth twirls a lock of hair. “Do you want the truth or what you want to hear?”

“The truth.”

“Honestly?” She smiles sadly. “I have no idea.”

# 

* * *

Summer ends in about a week.

Thalia doesn’t think she’s made a distinctly good memory in this dreaded place.

# 

* * *

She proceeds to the Big House after archery practice.

She’s adept with a bow, she notices. It’s somewhat irking.

Thalia isn’t particularly fond of the Big House, but it’s the only site where she can get a clear prospect of her tree without having hoards of campers encompassing her. Mr. D consistently disregards her, giving her no more than a huff of aggravation, and Chiron’s teaching archery, so that checks out two infuriating people off her list. She doesn’t know where Percy went. Probably goofing off somewhere. Shit, she doesn’t know.

She strides over the porch, hands wedged into her jacket pockets, stepping slowly, steadily, and she circles the corner and―

And Grover’s there. Sitting on the deck chair, sipping water from a bottle, brown eyes fixed on her. “Um. Hi.”

“Hey.” Thalia’s hands immediately go to her wrist, but then she hesitates. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh. Um.” Grover shrugs. “Enjoying the view?” Thalia frowns at him, unimpressed. “I wanted―um―I wanted to talk to you.”

She leans against the walls of the Big House, gaze down at her boots. “I’m listening.”

“Um, I’m―I’m sorry,” Grover apologizes, his lips scarcely moving. He takes another mouthful of water, secreting an apprehensive gulp. “About that night. When we were running. And monsters were chasing us. I didn’t―didn’t know what to do when we were close to camp and I―I couldn’t save you and then you died―”

“I don’t blame you for it,” Thalia interjects, cognizant of where this conversation is going, not wanting to move it further. “For my death. You did―you did what needed to be done.”

Grover grimaces. “I was only supposed to bring you.”

“So what?” Thalia picks at the peeling azure-blue paint beneath her hand. “You brought back Annabeth and Luke, didn’t you? That’s two demigods.”

“Yeah, but we all―we all thought you’d be the answer to the prophecy and you were a child of Zeus which meant you were, um, important―”

Thalia sharply laughs. “Oh yeah. That’s a good one. Did Chiron tell you that? Typical.”

He gawps at her dumbly. “I thought you liked Chiron.”

“Sometimes. Other times he’s just plain stupid.” She crosses her arms, flakes of pigment staining her fingertips. “Tell me, if I wasn’t a Zeus kid, would you really be that worried about me?”

“Yes,” Grover responds instantly.

Thalia elevates an unconvinced brow. “Oh really?”

“Yes. I would,” he reasserts again, more confident. “Because you’re my friend.” Thalia frowns. He twiddles his fingers. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Thalia replies eventually. She looks away from him. “But no one else would care.”

“Why not?”

“I mean. Y’know.” She gesticulates her hand in the air irresolutely. “No one would care if I were a Demeter kid or anything. Or, like, an Aphrodite kid.”

He hesitates. “I’m not...I’m not following.”

Thalia sighs, scratching the nape of her neck. “Okay, okay, look at it this way. The Big Three, right? They’re big and powerful and, y’know, strong. Which means their children must be big and powerful, too, right? They gotta be the ones to be leaders and shit. To be an example. They’re supposed to be tough and good fighters and―what I mean is―” She breaks off. Reposes the back of her head against the azure wall. Closes her eyes. “Gods, I have no idea what I mean.”

“I think I do,” Grover responds hastily. Thalia raises her gaze towards him. “Um. A little. You feel, um, pressured. Like you’re supposed to be perfect. Or something.”

“Kinda. It’s more like people just...don’t get it. Don’t get me, I mean. Like, they don’t know me.”

He taps a finger against his goat leg. “Did you ever give them a chance to?”

She costively considers it. “I guess not.”

Grover plants his water bottle on the arm of his chair. “Percy thinks the same way you do. I feel like...I feel like you two could be friends.”

“How do you know we aren’t?”

He snorts and indicates his temple with a finger. “Empathy link. We, um, did it while we were on a quest. He talks to me, too. You guys aren’t much different.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Or it’s the truth.” Grover scratches his goatee. “I’m still sorry about leaving you.”

“Hey,” Thalia adds faintly. “Did Annabeth and Luke make it across the border?”

He lowers his head. “You still―”

“Did they make it?”

Grover nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, they did.”

Thalia eyeballs the line where the ground and sky adjoined. “Then nothing else matters.”

“Maybe―maybe if Luke didn’t make―”

“He did make it. Annabeth, too. My death wasn’t for nothing as long as they crossed into camp. So nothing else matters.”

Grover still looks uncertain. “You’re sure?”

She’s not, but she’ll never say that in front of him.

Thalia’s eyes land on her tree, where she died a martyr, a hero, and a legend. Where she was a symbol of sacrifice and valor. Where she’s the daughter of the almighty Zeus, king of the gods and jackshit. She doesn’t feel like she is. She’s still a frightened little girl and nothing has changed. Not really. But it’s good to get her emotions off her chest instead of bottling them inside her heart, enabling them to boil and simmer until they erupt into a calamity.

It’s good to make peace with herself.

# 

* * *

It’s the last day of summer.

Thalia’s sending herself off to that boarding school Annabeth mentioned before. She’s slightly enthusiastic. She’s fucking petrified, actually, but Annabeth will be with her every step of the way. Campers leave one by one, prepared to head to the airport or drive back home. Some of them had remained, watching as everyone vacated from Camp Half-Blood. She’s glad she decided to go with Annabeth; she doesn’t trust that she can abide seeing people abandon her again and again and again.

Grover had hugged her before his departure. It’s been a fucking long time since anybody’s hugged her. Percy leaves, too, and they acknowledge each other with brief, defensive glances. It’s not friendship, but it’s not malice, either.

She stands at the base of her pine tree, cognizing this is the first time she’s been here since the Golden Fleece brought her back to life. Thalia traces her fingertips over the rind of the trunk, astonished by how young the tree appeared juxtaposed to the remainder of the forest. She peers beyond the camp perimeters, the first time she’s stepped out of camp for practically six years.

Her future’s out there. Luke’s out there, too, she supposes, but she doesn’t want to dwell on that.

Thalia’s hand gradually withdraws itself from the trunk, coiling into a fist, stowing it within her pocket.

But she’s okay.

She’s alive.

Thalia releases a breath.

It’s a little bit like relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](https://lovely-verisimilitude.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> i. me, writing this fic: _and they ask how you are, and you just have to say you're fine when you're not really fine but you can't get-_
> 
> ii. there's more to this, but it was getting way too long (i'm at 25 pages in google docs and i'm still not finished) so i had to split it into chapters. next chapter is coming up in either a month or in ten years. i haven't decided yet.
> 
> iii. the title and chapter titles are from the song i lived by onerepublic.
> 
> iv. feel free to request ships and prompts! i'm open to a lot of ships, so don't be afraid to ask. (i'm also open to characters to study. sort of like this fic.)
> 
> [tumblr](https://lovely-verisimilitude.tumblr.com/)


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